Mike Befeler Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series E-Book Box Set: Retirement Homes Are Murder, Living with Your Kids Is Murder, Senior Moments Are Murder, Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder

by Mike Befeler

  Then he handed the phone to me. I examined it as if he had given me a live coal. How did anyone talk into these tiny devices?

  It rang a few times, and then Lavino answered.

  “Detective, this is Paul Jacobson.”

  “Mr. Jacobson, I can hardly hear you. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Pearl Street Mall. I’ve located Mallory Pitman, the artist who’s been stealing trees. He has the evidence in plain sight. Come nail the bastard.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’m tied up right now but will check it out later.”

  “You do that. You can get one more criminal off the street.”

  So I needed to do whatever I could to keep Pitman here until Lavino arrived. I remembered reading that I had seen Pitman stuff one of Nate’s trees into a white van. He obviously used that to transport his ridiculous sculpture here.

  I noticed an alley off to the side of the mall. Moseying over, I spotted a white van. Success.

  I searched near a trash bin and found a nail. Then I unscrewed the cap on one of the back tires out of view of the crowds, pressed the nail against the valve and listened to the satisfying hiss of air escaping.

  Suddenly someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  I shot upright as if I had been burned.

  A street person in scruffy clothes, a scraggly beard and unkempt hair stood there scratching himself. “Whatcha doing, man? Why’re you letting air out of the dog catcher’s van?” I peered at the letters I hadn’t noticed on the vehicle. Shit. I had the wrong van.

  “Just testing tire pressure,” I said as I tossed the nail into the trash bin and then sauntered back to find Marion.

  Oh, well. One stray dog would have a little more free time before being locked up in the pound.

  I rejoined Marion who smiled at me as she stood in front of Pitman’s fiasco. She turned toward the so-called sculpture and stared at it thoughtfully.

  “What do you think of the exhibit?” I asked.

  “Some very good paintings. I particularly liked a set of mountain scenes, but this is something else.” She pointed at Pitman’s folly.

  “I know what you mean. That artist should be locked up.”

  * * * * *

  We met our taxi driver back at Pearl and Fifteenth.

  “Enjoy the exhibit, folks?”

  “Very enlightening,” I said. “Now we’re ready to chow down. On to the Flagstaff House.”

  The cab driver chuckled. “You’re in for quite a treat. A marvelous wine selection.”

  “You a wine connoisseur as well as an art expert?”

  “Yes. During my art studies on the continent, I picked up a passable knowledge of wine. You have to try their Domaine Harmand-Geoffroy Gevrey Chambertin 2001. It’s a fine red burgundy with a spicy bouquet and a tang of ripe cherry.” He took a hand off the steering wheel and kissed his fingers.

  I stared at the back of his bald head. “You have any other sidelines, like advice for the lovelorn?”

  “Why yes. I also have a Masters in psychology.”

  “If we start fighting, I’ll seek your services.”

  Marion snuggled up against me, and I decided that we wouldn’t need his assistance.

  The driver cut over to Baseline, and we headed up the winding road on the side of Flagstaff Mountain. Out on the plains, the shadows from the Flatirons slowly lengthened as sunset approached.

  “You will have a lovely view at this time of evening,” the cabbie said.

  “You give sightseeing tours?”

  “I do. On weekends I guide a Tours ’R Us bus up into Rocky Mountain National Park.”

  “Is there anything you don’t do?”

  “I don’t do dishes. Working in a restaurant is beneath my calling.”

  I gave him a five-dollar tip, and a doorman ushered us into a glass-enclosed dining area.

  Marion gasped. “What a view!”

  “As promised.”

  We sat at a table next to the window, and neither of us said anything as we surveyed the rooftops, sandstone buildings of the University of Colorado, green trees and ponds dotting the outskirts of town.

  We ordered some zinfandel, which, when served, we raised in a toast to our reunion. After scouring the elaborate menu and placing our orders, the feasting began. A waiter materialized and proceeded to deliver in perfectly timed sequence a plate of the chef’s hors d’oeuvres, a salad a bunny would die for, lightly browned crab cakes and mandarin orange sherbet to cleanse our palates. I didn’t even know my palate was dirty. Then as Marion and I gazed into each other’s eyes, the main course magically appeared. Marion had a petite filet mignon, big enough to choke a vegetarian horse, and I had a salmon that practically jumped off the plate and into my mouth.

  “At our age it’s fantastic to be able to eat a delicious meal like this,” I said.

  “Speak for yourself. I’m nowhere near your age.”

  “I know. You’re still a young chick. But old farts like me have to take time to appreciate these things.”

  Marion squeezed my hand. “You’re not that old. I find you very handsome.”

  I squeezed her hand back. “Thank you. I’m privileged to be in the company of such a wonderful woman.”

  We gazed again into each other’s eyes. I felt that special warmth. Even though I couldn’t remember her from the last time I’d seen her, I experienced a heart-felt connection. As Jennifer said, Marion and I should be together.

  The arrival of the baked Alaska interrupted my reverie.

  Since this meal would eat significantly into Denny’s inheritance, I decided to make the most of it and did my fair share of demolition on the dessert. After licking the last bit of ice cream off my lips, I reached over and took Marion’s hands in mine.

  “As you know, I have a very intelligent granddaughter.”

  “Yes, Paul. She’s quite a young lady.”

  “Well . . . er . . . she told me that she thought you and I should . . . well . . . get together.”

  A twinkle appeared in Marion’s eyes. “Is this some sort of proposal?”

  “I guess you could call it that.” I took a deep breath. “I care a great deal for you, Marion. I would like to be with you, but I have trouble reconciling that with foisting my memory problem off on you.” That and I needed to find a way to keep out of jail.

  Marion smiled. “I appreciate your concern, Paul, but I know what I’m up against. Don’t you think that it’s my decision whether I’m willing to accept your limitations?”

  “Absolutely. I know I’d be hard to live with. Most mornings I wake up and can’t remember anything from the day before. That would mean that I wouldn’t recognize you either.”

  “You and I spoke of this when we lived at the Kina Nani retirement home in Hawaii. Back then, I didn’t think I was ready for that type of relationship, and I decided to go live with my daughter in California. But I’ve been reconsidering it. During the road trip, my daughter and I have talked a great deal, and she helped me to recognize something. People always have issues: differences of opinion, baggage brought into the relationship, health concerns, worries and so on. Your memory presents a significant problem, and it’s a condition that isn’t easy to deal with. But you’re a vital, vigorous man, and I love you.”

  I sat there dumbfounded. “If you’re willing to put up with my little deficiency, I think we should get hitched.”

  Marion laughed. “Before we rush into anything, why don’t we live together for awhile? I’ve discussed this with my daughter, and you could come live with me in Southern California. I have a separate apartment, and we could see how we get along.”

  “I’d like to be with you, Marion, and I see no reason not to make it a formal commitment.”

  As I held her hands, I noticed that her ring finger was the same size as my little finger.

  She squeezed my hands. “Let’s discuss it again in the morning.”

  “We run the risk of me not remembering. We’d have to discuss this all over agai
n. Maybe I’d forget that I offered to marry you.”

  Her lips curled into a smug smile. “Paul, I have something to tell you. I know you haven’t wanted to discuss this, but I figured it out. When we have sex, you remember things the next day. I think we should make sure that your memory works perfectly tomorrow morning.”

  “I can’t argue with that suggestion. I hope I’m up to it.”

  “You will be. I’ll see to it.”

  After forking over a good portion of my life’s savings, I requested to have a cab called.

  “Your place or mine?” I asked.

  “Andrea is in our hotel room and since your family has gone to the theater, we better go to yours.”

  When the taxi arrived, I checked to see if we had the Renaissance man from before. No. This time the cabbie pushed sixty with remnants of gray hair sprouting out on the sides of his head.

  “Are you a PhD in art history by any chance?” I asked him.

  “No. My PhD is in literature.”

  “Are you driving a cab because it gives you new insights into the human predicament?”

  He sighed. “I wish. I had tenure as a full-time professor at CU and retired with a solid portfolio, but I imprudently invested it in some up-and-coming Internet companies. Then poof!” He snapped his fingers. “Into Dante’s hell. I tried to reclaim my job, but it was too late, so here I am. A Sisyphus rolling my cab up Mapleton Hill.”

  “Seems like the taxi cab union in Boulder requires a prerequisite of a doctorate degree.”

  “There are a number of us. We like living here, and the cab pays the bills.”

  I thought over what he said. If I had a choice of being in jail or driving a cab, I’d take the cab. But it wasn’t likely that I’d ever receive a driver’s license again.

  We climbed out of the taxi in front of Denny’s house, and I wished the driver well with a thirty percent tip. Hey, I had to do my part to support the liberal arts.

  Inside, we hung up our coats.

  “Care for a nightcap?” I asked.

  “Sure. What do you have?”

  “Good question.” I rummaged through kitchen cabinets and found a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels and some Smirnoff vodka. “Name your poison.”

  “I’ll have a small bourbon and water.”

  With drinks in hand, we clinked glasses and sat down on the couch.

  “So tell me where you’re staying in California.”

  “My daughter Andrea and her family live in Venice, not far from the canals.”

  “Are there really canals in Venice?”

  “Yes. A grand canal connects with four feeder canals that each runs approximately two blocks. Paul, it’s so beautiful: the morning reflection off the water spanned by a white, arched bridge in the distance and colorful cottages with neatly trimmed hedges lining a walkway . . .”

  “All those years I lived in Los Angeles, I never visited Venice. We often traveled to Santa Monica Beach or Redondo, but somehow I missed Venice.”

  “It’s very unique. The town I’ve described represents calm and beauty. There’s another side to Venice. Along the beach from the Venice Pier to Santa Monica on a weekend you find every variety of normal person and weirdo that Southern California can produce. Street vendors hawk their wares. You can buy anything from sandals to hookah pipes. You find street performers, artists, protesters, rollerbladers, bicyclists, belly dancers, kids with every imaginable form of musical device, families heading to the beach and plain tourists.”

  “Sounds like quite a mob scene.”

  “Take the Pearl Street Mall here, add the ocean, an onshore breeze, multiply the craziness a hundredfold and you have Venice. I can sit on a bench for hours watching all the strange characters parade past.”

  “Sounds like I would fit right in.”

  “You would. You’d never be bored. Venice is a tale of two cities. It has the two faces—the calm and the frenetic. Much like my daughter Andrea in her teenage years. During the day she charged around at two hundred miles an hour. At night I’d look in on her when she slept—a peaceful angel.”

  “And you think your family would be ready for me to invade their domain?”

  “Of course, Paul. They’d love you as much as I do. You’d be very comfortable in Andrea’s home. They bought it twenty years ago, fixed it up and added an apartment over the garage, where I live. I have a private residence with bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom. I can spend time with my family or, when I want, be on my own. It’s big enough for two.” She gave my arm a squeeze.

  “And you’d really put up with an old coot joining you?”

  “Of course. If it’s the right old coot.”

  Suddenly we were caressing each other and our mouths met like attracting magnets. I felt a little-used part of my anatomy come alive. All the delicious tastes of the evening couldn’t compare with the sweetness of Marion’s lips.

  I came up for air. “Would you care to see my etchings?”

  “And anything else you have to show me.”

  This was getting interesting.

  We adjourned to my bedroom.

  Marion gave my room the once-over. “I’m glad to see only my picture on your dresser this time.”

  “You’re the only woman for me.”

  Our bodies pressed against each other, and not-too-nimble fingers began fumbling with buttons and zippers. As the joints loosened up, clothes began to fly faster than at a day-after-Thanksgiving sale.

  We were in luck. Allison had changed my bed that day, so we snuggled in fresh sheets.

  I began exploring intriguing curves and indentations. My equipment kicked into gear.

  “Oh, Paul.”

  “Marion!”

  Then we engaged and revved up our engines like two finely-tuned, but seasoned, machines. I hadn’t forgotten what to do!

  My old body and selected parts hung in there to do their job, and at the moment of release, I flung my arm out.

  My hand hit the nightstand lamp that teetered and plummeted to the floor to the sound of shattering glass.

  Chapter 17

  I lay there spent, basking in the aftermath of lovemaking with Marion. My room in Denny’s house seemed to be swirling around me.

  “My goodness, Paul. People describe hearing bells ringing or fireworks going off, but that crashing sound—how unique.”

  “We old guys have special music.”

  We snuggled together for a while before I lumbered out of bed. “We better put some clothes on. My family will be home soon.”

  Marion sighed. “I guess you’re right. We don’t want to shock the kids.”

  I considered cleaning up the broken lamp, but decided I’d do that after escorting Marion back to her hotel.

  “It’s a quarter-of-a-mile walk,” I said. “You up to a moonlight stroll?”

  “Sure. Is that how you stay so fit, Paul? Taking walks?”

  “Every chance I can. Whether walking Max or wandering around on my own, I try to put in several miles a day.”

  “That’s another thing you’ll love about Venice. Along the ocean, a winding bicycle path traverses the distance from Marina Del Mar to Will Rogers State Park. You’ll have lots of places to roam.”

  That would sure beat time in jail. I needed to find a way to distance myself from all these crimes I’d been associated with in Colorado. Then I could consider this possibility of a new life with Marion.

  We arrived at the hotel.

  “Thank you for a wonderful dinner.” Marion reached up and pulled my head toward hers and planted a delectable kiss on my puss.

  I hugged her, and we separated at arm’s length to gaze into each other’s eyes.

  “There’s a restaurant in the hotel,” Marion said. “Come join me for breakfast.”

  “What time do you want this old fool to show up?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  We parted with another kiss. I waved as she entered the lobby
and then floated back toward Denny’s house. Damn. What a woman. And she wanted to be with an old poop like me. Who wudda thunk?

  As I strolled along, my reverie was interrupted by the sight of a white van parked with its right front wheel over the curb. Then I heard the sound of sawing. Could it be Pitman up to his old tricks?

  I peered into the yard and, sure enough, I spotted a shadowy figure hacking away at a fir tree. This guy had to be stopped.

  I picked up a stick and sneaked up on the culprit.

  With his focus upon the destruction of the tree, he didn’t notice me.

  I jammed the stick into his back. “Reach for the sky or I’m going to blast you into smithereens.”

  He let out a yelp, dropped the saw and thrust his arms toward the Milky Way.

  “Now lie face down, unless you want your organs splattered all over this lawn.”

  He flopped down faster than Max dropping into his doggy bed.

  “Don’t move a muscle if you want to see tomorrow.”

  He shook and whimpered.

  I strode toward the house and knocked on the door.

  A man opened the door.

  “Why hello, Paul. What brings you here?”

  Although I didn’t recognize him, this had to be Nate Fisher.

  “I caught the wacko who’s been cutting your trees. He’s lying face down in your yard.”

  An attractive gray-haired woman joined him.

  “What did you do to him, Paul?”

  “Just put the fear of death in him. Call the police, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t escape.”

  I returned to the yard to find Pitman still face down. I stuck the stick into his back again. “Make my day, slimebag.”

  He continued to quiver. I hadn’t had so much fun since hitting the bull’s eye at a carnival in San Pedro and winning a stuffed bear when I was courting my now departed wife Rhonda.

  Nate came out to join me.

  “The police should be here soon. Helen’s on the phone with them.” Nate stifled a laugh when he saw me with the stick in Pitman’s back. He quickly joined in the spirit of the situation. “Lordy, please don’t shoot that man. I don’t want blood all over my yard.”